


The Draw

by Sedna (Evanelle)



Category: Elder Scrolls I: Arena, Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Harry Potter Crossover
Genre: Cheese, Disjointed And Incomplete Memories, Gen, Mad God Reborn, Multiple Character POVs, Multiple Past Lives, Slice of Life, botched reincarnation, oc-insert
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-15
Updated: 2019-11-13
Packaged: 2020-01-13 14:28:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 12,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18470827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evanelle/pseuds/Sedna
Summary: "And in that moment he knows. That those ink stained hands will wield something not as easily seen."





	1. Prologue

Curiosity had eaten away at the Ollivander heir for years, and long after he had become a father.

And now the date had passed.

Hidden away in the depths of their families Gringotts vault, among their dwindling wealth Garrick lifts a thin, lightweight casket. The word 'destiny' written in his fathers messy scrawl, and underlined twice. Dark against the woods pale grain.

His daughter laughs, a joyful sound as he shakes the box like an over eager child.

Standing beside her growing stomach, a goblin looks on aghast. Key gripped tightly in his old, knarled hand. Knuckles white.

The goblins did not care for him, or his like.

Their memories long, and as enduring as the stone, that surrounded them. The eldest of their breed, still unable to forgive the wizards of old, for stealing their totems and dividing the power amongst them.

Forced into the depths, embers began to glow. They built new empires out of metal, and ore. Trinkets, and precious stones.

Resilient beings, the goblins were.

And that trait was a desirable one.

Goblins hair worked so well in wands, Ollivander laments. And skin and bone had been forbidden since the ending of the last war. Any wands made of them were cofiscated by the government and burned.

Such a shame, it was.

There were a few survivors, wands passed down through the old lines. Untouchable by law. Or hidden in the underground markets, with wands of a lesser calibers.

Even he, in had crafted a few of those, forbidden pieces. Temperamental things, those wands, but powerful if in placed in the right hands.

The halflings of their race seemed to benefit most, similar to the veela and their ilk. Many other wands wilting in their child's hands.

Ollivander wonders idly about their keys, held so closely to the goblins bodies and what else they had slipped in, besides metal. The designs similar to what their totems had once worn.

His father had been slippery like that too.

The box in his hand continues rustling, as if reforming a book and Garrick's lips twist further up.

History was always an important thing, after all.

His daughter meets his toothy grin.

"The pages torn from grandfathers journal?" she queries. Her eyes seeming brighter in the low light.

°°°°

Garrick pauses and stares at the rune like symbols, unable to discern if the correct translation is rebirth or reborn. He traces his fingers along the sweeping arches, and rounded edges. Wondering idly if his father had taken his grandfathers stories to heart.

As a child Garrick had been fascinated by tales of death's favoured children, run through his fingers and been reborn. The stool creaking beneath the Ollivander heir, as he inched closer to the his wizened grandfather.

Few ever meeting the elusive souls, or recognizing the signs, but his grandfather had. Had known the moment their eyes met.

And then there was the boy, his grandfather had spoken about so often. His voice soft, and wistful. So full of yearning.

°°°°

Like all men his father had been flawed.

And in Gervaise's case a little mad.

Head encased in a bubble charm, Garrick Ollivander moves across the upper level of his shop. Knees aching as they slid across the worn hardwood floor. His knuckles rapping against the bases of the wall to wall shelves. Pale, wrinkled fingers running along the seams. Searching for a hatch, or concealed space. Anything really.

Garrick knew paranoia. How tight it's grip could get. All successful wand makers experienced it eventually, when people started hovering over their shoulders. Creeping, into rooms they had no place being.

But there was a delicate line surrounding what was realistic and what wasn't and his father soared past it, like an errant broom. The man barricading himself in the upstairs work room. At first for days, and then months. Mumbling furiously to himself, and an invisible, unnamed companion. Cursing any time someone neared the door.

His mother wringing her hands as she watched over the man she loved.

Her husband consumed by his craft, and churning out defective, unstable wands. Each wilting, one after another.

Gervaise Ollivander leaving only in the dead of night, when the world seemed still and the tiny shop even stiller. A trail of wood shavings and crumbs left from one spot to another, where he apparated in the street and where he reappeared.

And one ridiculously cold night, Garrick had taken over his mothers vigil. Sent the exhausted woman to bed, and waited. Saw the door crack open, and a face peer out.

Both men unable to hold their surprise.

His fathers face gaunt and terrible to behold.

And Garrick had known, in that moment, staring at the haggard man in rumpled, stained clothes he couldn't af-

His fingers catch, and the wandmaker finds it. The product of all his fathers fevered dreams. They tremble as he pulls open the caskets lid.

He removes a note attached to the wand reading, 'a child will come.'

And clutches it to his heart.

°°°°

Garrick watches his customers enter. Members of the Goyle line, a tall and sturdy folk. Related closely to the Burkes' and the Crabbes'and more distantly to the Blacks', Crouch's and Malfoys'. Some of the older lines whispering of an adoption many generations back, but it was rarely spoken of or acknowledged.

The young Goyle heir propels his sister forward, scowling as she tries to adjust the collar of her robes. Some strange, vibrant hue. Their father trailing behind, a hand on either of the twins shoulders. An older woman striding confidently beside them. Dressed in a similar manner to the girl.

And again his eyes are drawn to the taller of the twins as she tries to smile at him. Her posture resigned, as if looking for someone else in his place.

And in that moment he knows. That those hands stained with ink will wield something not as easily seen.

°°°°

Finished with the eldest twin, Garrick approaches the young miss Goyle. Curiosity eating away at him, as the girl stands by the glass display cases. Her family remaining by the register, torn between joining them and admiring the wand, the boy had thrust out.

A lovely hued piece of ash with a dragon heartstring core. Retrieved from the corpse of a Swedish short snout, determined on protecting its eggs from another dragon. It's length twelve inches, and slightly longer than the wand Garrick had placed with the elder Goyle so many years ago.

Another wand that would of been difficult to master, quite hard and with great potent for destruction. Bound to excel in the darker, and more offensive arts.

And this other child.. Well.

The girl raises her head to acknowledge him, hand falling to her side. Fingers no longer a light, with a soft green glow.

"Do you believe in destiny?" she asks, pale eyes catching in the candlelight. Darker then his own, and far emptier, as if a part of her was hidden from view.

"I do."

The wand does not vibrate in her presence or hum, as some woods do but the shadows shift, as if trying to reveal itself.

She hums an affirmative, and offers up a strange, secretive smile. Just for him, and out of sight of her approaching kin. "I thought you might."

"And I believe you something for me, as well."

"We have something for everyone," Garrick chuckles, gesturing widely to the walls. "But I do believe you are being more specific."

"I am."

The surety in her tone propels him into action.

"My father created a wand many years ago, before the madness overtook him," Garrick recalls. Hand shaking, as he reaches past her. The displays latch opening far to easily. "I believe this is what you are seeking."

Pale fingers wrap around the wand, brush against the velvet beneath.

"Hornbeam," Garrick utters, brandishing the wand. "Long, twelve inches and surprisingly flexible for such a dense material."

He smiles kindly. "A wand meant for a visionary, for someone not unlike myself."

"It is beautiful," she marvels, taking it from Garrick. "Like dragon bone. Stripped and scored to look like wood."

"You're father was very talented."

He nods. "The core is thestral hair."

"It will be costly then," Aurenia Goyle nee Burke interrupts, jeweled hand moving to her granddaughters shoulder. "I have not heard of someone using that core before."

"It is not common," Garrick acknowledges.

During his apprenticeship he had discovered just how difficult a material it was to work with. How hard it was to acquire without damaging the integrity of the core.

Thestrals swift, and far more intelligent than they appeared. And their teeth sharp when cornered. Garrick still has a few reminders, of the needle like protrusions piercing him.

How he had to explain the hooves prints, to his new wife. His hand, hidden smartly by his bags.

"Unicorn hair is far more practical," he explains, examining the elder woman for signs of any real interest in the craft. "Most are subpar creations of coarse, but there are tales of another. One of unmatched potential."

"The elder wand," she muses.

"Yes. You have heard the tales?"

"Many tried to sell my father wands bearing that name. And you know his reputation, as well as my uncles."

His father had traded with the men on occasion, as he experimented. Shrewd fellows, with a talent for collecting hard to find items. But it would be a waste to sell such a marvek. Garrick would rather study the wand. Further his skills.

"Well, on with it my dear girl. Don't keep Mr. Ollivander waiting," Aurenia nee Burke chides. Garish rings catching in the light as she motions for the girl to act, again.

The child nods, and shifts the wand in her hand as if it should weigh more. Her face taking on a edge, he's only seen on adults.

Glittering flakes escape the wand instead of sparks, and span the room in seconds. Coating everything before it in a thin layer of gossamer. Garrick reaches out and touches the cool film, surprised that it remains.

He catches sight of the Goyle heir dragging some into his mouth, and making a disgusted expression. His father's stern gaze the only thing keeping him from spitting it out.

"You could of made it taste better," he complains, cheeks pink as he meets Garrick's gaze instead of his siblings.

The girl snorts, repositioning herself. "Be grateful it was dust, and not bone."

"Or yellow," their father adds, proud of his own joke.

Garrick's heart pangs, as he watches them.

Almost sees another girl turn around, dust motes dancing in the air around her.

The words catch in his throat.

Aurenia coughs, and he straightens meeting her amused gaze. "I look forward to seeing what draws you miss Goyle."

The girl cradles the wand. "And the cost?" she asks.

"What is it that calls you child?" he asks. The answer doesn't really matter, but curiosity pulls at him.

This is what his father had suffered for.

This moment.

The girl looks at him, considering and then shakes her head. "You have seen my hands, do you really need to ask?"

A sliver of disappointment digs its way into him.

It is a fair point though, he concedes.

"Your new companion will be 32 galleons then, the cost of a custom wand."

Garrick catches the senior Mr. Goyle's hesitation. It is a small fortune, especially for a family not known for being well off.

His mother's smile is interesting though, holding something close to triumph as she pushes her son's hand back and opens her money bag. A simple thing, for such a well decorated woman.

There has been gossip of them having broken the century long contact, that bound their heirs to the Malfoys. Perhaps there had been some truth to it.

A tug on his sleeves pulls Garrick away from his thoughts, and he blinks as lips meet his cheek.

"Thank you," the girl says, all whizzbees and other, sugary treats.

Garricks hand moves towards his face on instinct, though the girl lingers near his ear. Whispering, "There are other things you need to know."

"Things he never knew."

Garrick stiffens, as his eyes grow wide. Throat threatening to close, as a cumbrous, almost unbearable pressure descends. A strange cold seeping into his bones, as he reaches for his neck. Spots spreading through out his vision.

And when the bitter cold lifts, Garrick can almosy breath again and he shudders.

The girl laughs. A sound like birds and broken teacups, shattering against the wall. "You need not worry about such things. Not here."

Garrick stares at the child, incredulous. His shop gone, and in ruins behind her.

"Awful things are going to happen," the girl continues, stepping back. Hands moving to show further damage.

Gray flakes tinged with black fall around them.

"As they always do."

His stomach twists as he watches two images overlap, two worlds collide. Monstrous creatures chasing their prey down burning streets, and braying their triumph. Tearing into the fallen shades. Dementors swarming the still bodies, hovering in large circles. Feeding. The smell of burning flesh and air, and smoke covering that of lost bowels and torn open stomachs.

A spell skims his nose, and he dodges the next colorful streak. Hand reaching desperately for his wand as he trips. He tries to execute a proper roll when he discovers it missing, and knock the approaching figures over. The dueling shades pass through him, like disturbed water.

"Miss Goyle?!" he shouts. His heart beating rapidly.

His yell barely audible over the victims screams.

A stranger stands in her place, with the same empty eyes. Pale white hair instead of brackish brown. Hexes passing through her, and transforming objects, while other wands just destroyed them.

"Bend when the time comes Garrick Ollivander," the woman warns, her gaze never leaving his. Accent lighter, and her voice far colder. "Let that man, or what's left of him believe you broken and bide your time."

Another laugh escapes her lips at his expression and she turns her back to him, moving away. Disappearing into the gray haze.

"A child will come and then another," she calls back. As if that is enough.

Garrick coughs, trying to speak. To ask. The smoke pouring into his lungs as he tries to follow, to pinpoint where her voice was last. His eyes stinging and the spots reforming.

Seconds later Garrick opens his bloodshot, watering eyes. The words on the ledger below him unreadable and the metal drawer of the register digging into his ribs. Galleons lined up on the counter beside it.

The woman's voice continuing to echo throughout the shop. Haunting him.

"They will be your salvation."

And softer, "Maybe even ours."

And all Garrick Ollivander can taste is ash. His mouth dry, and thick like velvet, shorn in the early spring.


	2. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are goodbyes, and references to crazy trains.

The smell of perfume, and sweat clings to the bodies around them, as they move through the throng of busy people. 

Gregory Sr stifles a sigh as he looks down at his daughter, walking between him and his son. There is an odd gleam in her eye. One that never boded well for those she chose to play with.

He continues watching the youngest of his children, and how her lips twitch as they enter the station. And feeling his gaze, finally looks up. Let's it slip into a more familiar grin. Something cat like, and feral.

And one that he remembers from his childhood.

Professor Kettleburn had been shouting for the beast to come down, when Gregory first saw the golden figure. The large cat lounging in the sun. It's long, corded tail slapping the eeves, as if in beat to the their hearts, as they huddled in small groups below.

The twist of lips had only grown, as the sphinx's powerful wings had cut through the air, and swept their hair back. Large paws sinking into the soft, rain spotted ground as it landed. It's wide mouth opening to call a challenge. 

And then, the first test had begun.

Lucius whispering in Gregory's ear as the line advanced, heart put sideways in his chest. Palms slick, and damp as the beast looked on, examining them. Drawing it's tongue, across it's chops.

Eager.

His daughter was too much like that. 

"Do you ever wonder what would happen if the train gained sentience and never wanted to let us off?" Gretta asks. Her question far to loud to be anything, but a ploy to strike fear into the children around them.

Hands motioning as she continues, "Because I can totally picture it father, all of us screaming as it continues on. The windows slamming closed and the-"

"Hey!" Gregory Jr rasps. Her elbow flying past him. The fat, brown streaked bird in his arms, flattening it's long, ear tufts in fury. Brown streaked wings rapping against the bars.

"That's quite the imagination," a tall figure drawls. His family settling in beside them.

"I know," Gretta remarks. Gray irises wandering up the well tailored robes, and towards his sheered blonde locks, cut inches from his skull. Which seemed to puzzle his daughter for some reason.

Gregory jr. snorts softly, elbowing his sister and offering a more polite, "Mr. Malfoy, Mrs." 

Then nods towards their son, who's scanning the crowd. "Draco." 

The other boy returns his greeting, half heartedly as he continues his search for the next dark lord.

"It has been months Gregory," Lucius chides, though they both know the reason he's been distant.

Behind the blonde man, Vincent appears, approaching with the rest of their kin. And like gobstones, the people around them scatter. 

Blue eyes land on his daughter again, and L  
"No, you are right." she agrees. Brushing a braid behind her shoulder. "If it were mad, it would have a smile that couldn't be trusted."

The mans lips twitch, while the others greetings still. "Really?" he asks.

"Yes."

Madigan sniffs, drawing attention away from his daughter peculiarities, as she so kindly puts them. Her hands no longer fussing over Gregory Jr, and the grass clinging to his robes.

"Mother did not wish to see the children off?" she asks. Her gaze searching for the tall, heavy set woman. 

"As if I would allow my grandchildren to be sent off, without saying goodbye," a voice says sharply, and they all turn. 

White hair coifed in some absurd fashion, his mother stands, arm and arm with the elder Borgin. A dapper looking man, long past his prime and far to pale, to be truely healthy.

Lucius manages to recover first, from the shock and reaches for his mothers hand. Taking her knuckles to his lips, he says, "A delight as always."

The elder woman nods, eyeing him with distaste. "I am sure."

Gregory turns his head, when his mother does and focuses on a column near by. Let's his siblings do all the talking. He knows he'll be in for an earful when they get home, but he couldn't let his nephew protect the Malfoy heir alone, not with the way the boy behaved. The other kids would eat him alive. 

And their were worse friends to have than the blonde prince, even with Lucius's diminished reputation.

And both his children would need them.

Taking the chance, he lets his eyes fall to his heirs.

The elder Borgin slips a well worn spell book into his daughters hand. Motioning to Greta's pocket, with a his other finger hovering before his lips. With shining eyes, she rises to kiss his wrinkled cheek, and wraps her arms around the thinning man. 

The girl far to fond of the old man, just as his grandfather had been.

Her sees his son standing by Vincent Jr, scouring the crowd with Draco. Overlooked by his grandfather's partner, just as he had been. No talent for the business the man had said, but he wasn't so sure. The boy kept his sister's secrets well, even from Gregory and while hesitant would follow the girl anywhere. Ignoring all the dangers. Given a sibling instead of a brain.

And sometimes Gregory worries.

Because honestly if their lord returned, would his children survive his wrath? Would his daughter stare his master down or would she stand beside Bellatrix, her brother at their knees? Or would she stand on all their graves, grieving?

Lucius said the man was gone and the marks had faded, but sometimes Gregory isn't so sure. The Lestrange's hadn't been, nor some of the others and sometimes he finds his hand raising up on it's own, to rub at the raw skin. Magic itching underneath the flesh, as if calling.

Sometimes he wakes up in a cold sweat, and full of pain, just as the first night. Though his room is empty when he rolls over. He wonders if it's his future, or theirs. 

Gregory catches his sister hugging Vincent Jr and he scrubs a hand across his face. He doesn't want to leave them. 

Not yet.

Tears threaten to spill as his mother ushers the children towards him. Her face grim, but not unknowing.

Gregory's heart catches again, at the sight of his children's faces. More like Amelia's then his. Bearing only his chin, and deep set eyes. 

His throat tightens, and his hand trembles, just as it did on the night his wife first asked him to dance. Her hair wild, and eyes closed, as she hummed along with the music. Guiding his steps.

Gregory presses a kiss to their daughters forehead, catching a whiff of ink, and lavender soap as he does so. 

His son smells more of chewed grass and sunlight, as he reaches over, and slips some coins into his pocket. Let's his lips linger a second longer.

"Take care of each other," he growls, not trusting his normal voice to waver. His arms tight around them, as they huddle together. Their heads just above his elbows.

"We'll be okay da," Gregory Jr promises. Squirming under the weight of the muscle.

His daughter meets his gaze. "Grandmother says we're survivors. We'll be fine."

Amelia's face flickers through Gregory's mind again, fierce and always so sure of herself.

"It'll be okay," his wife had promised, voice straining as she patted the spot beside her bed. And for a moment he had almost believed her.

And the tears start again.

Merlin, he misses that woman.

Gregory feels a soft cloth dab under his eyes.

"You're embaressing us," Gretta chides, though her eyes are also wet.

Gregory Jr squirms again. Uncomfortable with the attention they are drawing. "Common Da, we gotta go."

"I know." he whispers, but can't seem to release them. His eyes close, trying to stem the flow of tears and Gregory pulls the children closer to him. 

Promises himself just a few moments more.


	3. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> fate is a curious thing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all for the follows and kudos. they help to inspire me to write more. I hope you enjoy this chapter, or better yet what tell me what you liked. :)

They move along the trains corriders, peeking into the rooms. The best compartments already taken, with some less welcoming students and a few, with children the Malfoy heir has deemed undesirable companions.

"Your oaf of a father made us late," Draco complains, in a huff as they walk.

"My oaf of a father loves us enough to show it." Gretta fires back, watching the thin boy bristle. 

It was sore point, she could definitely work.

"My parents said our goodbyes before we left, as not to make a scene," he sneers. Face mimicking some sickly bird of prey. "That's the proper way to do it."

"Not everyone displays emotion the same way, Malfoy."

"Clearly. My parents have more sense."

"Then why were you jealous?"

"No. I'm not... I wasn't," he sputters, turning to her fully. "I've just never seen a grown man cry like that."

"And what were you doing, staring at my mother like that? Are you jealous I have one, and you don't? Or was it your mother was stupid enough to step in front of a spell?"

Gretta snorts, "I am many things, Malfoy. And your mothers a great Occlumens."

"A what?"

"I'm disappointed Malfoy. My father said you were supposed to be intelligent. Don't you read? If we are ever going to survive another dark lord, it is a skill we will need."

"Yo-"

"Will you both shut up?!" another boy shouts, opening a nearby door.

Her family shrinks back. Gregory pulling her back with him, his fingers bruising her wrist.

Eyes wide, they examine the too tall stranger and the writhing mess of snakes upon his head. Wrestling with each other, and snapping, as their bodies pull on their boys scalp. 

"We're sorry," Gretchen apologises on instinct. Her body acting as a shield for Malfoy.

"Yes," the boy's chorus, faces pale.

The boy knods, and slams the door shut. 

They shiver in turns.

Gregory shares a look with her, and steals her hand properly. Tugs, ignoring the marks he has created.

Moments pass, and they make their way into the next area. Far more quietly. Even the trolley witch ignored as she passes, with mounds of delicious treats and strange oddities, Gretchen still struggles to wrap her mind around.

Why in the world would someone make their prey harder to catch?

"I though his hair was going to attack us," Gregory whispers, still uneasy after the encounter.

"Me too," she lies. Her hand gripping his.

°°°°°

Malfoy is terrible at making friends, Gretchen decides as she steps forward.

"You'll have to excuse my cousin's manners. He's not very good with people," she interrupts, before Draco can continue his spiel. Her hand growing damp with his breath, as she clamps down harder on his mouth. "He isn't so bad though, when he's not talking."

Startled into laughter, the boys let down their guard. Gretchen ignores how pale her twin, and Vince have grown. How their stance changes, when Malfoy's face reddens in his struggles and claws at her arms. Leaves ragged marks, badly drain like a child's game of hopscotch.

"Well mostly," she adds. "He will grow on you, if you let him. Like mold on good cheese."

"And you are?" the bespeckled boy asks.

"Gretchen Goyle," she reveals, forcing Draco to bow slightly with her. "Granddaughter of Aurenia nee Burke, a famous breeder of winged horses, and trainer. She's well known for competing in races, as well. If you're interested in that kind of thing."

"And the boys on my left and right, are my other half, Gregory and, our cousin Vincent Crabbe."

The potter boy's nervousness is palatable. His feet shifting, from one foot to another. They do cut, quite an intimidating figure beside her Gretchen realizes.

"Be polite you two," she reminds them. 

They nod.

"It is uh, nice to meet y-" 

"Don't trust them Harry!" Weasley snarls, moving in front of him. A ragged mess of red and dull, patched black. "Their parents went over to the dark!"

Gretta scoffs. "We are hardly our parents, Weasley."

"Are you the same as the people who raised you, Potter?" she asks, with Draco still bound in her arms. 

"No!" the dark haired boy says, vehement enough to shock himself. "I... How did you know?"

"Your past is hardly a mystery, Potter," she remarks, offering him a shrug. "You are the boy wonder, destroyer of a man who shall not be named, and hero of our wizarding community. People talk." 

"Boy wonder?" Potter laughs, surprised by the muggle reference. "I've never been called that."

"Sounds good though, doesn't i-"

Gretchen bites back a yelp, as Malfoy clamps down on the side of her hand. 

She forcea herself to keep smiling.

"Your hand..." Potter murmers. "It's bleeding." 

"I'm aware."

"Malfoy can be an ass sometimes. I try not to let it bother me though. Could you pass me the hankercheif in my pocket? The left one."

"Sure," the boy says, maneuvering around Malfoy's feet. Jettisoning out, like errant brooms.

"Vince, could you catch Malfoy when I let go? We don't want him to fall, and ruin that pretty face of his."

The grumpy boy, sighs and shakes his head.

Gretchen looses the furious heir anyway. Her blood smearing as he goes, far enough he cannot turn back and strike her.

"How dare you! My father will be hearing of this!" Draco rants, as he rights himself with Vincents help. His expression nothing short of venomous. "You are supposed to be protecting me!" 

"I am, you idiot. From yourself." she replies, taking the square cloth from the Potter boy. Gregory hovering at her side.

"He will be a better person than I am someday," she assures Potter, stopping Draco in his tracks.

"What?" he asks.

"You heard me."

"Going over to the dark side like your parents then? " Ron snarks.

"As if your light is better," she snaps back. "My mother died because one of your precious Aurors got sloppy and hit an innocent woman."

"Hardly innocent, I bet. You're all the same."

"My mother was a housewife, just as yours is. Nothing more."

"There is no sense arguing with blood traitors," Draco sneers, as he adjusts his robes. Chin still marked with blood.

"You'll soon find out some wizarding families are better than others, Potter. You don't want to go making friends with the wrong sort." He offers his hand to the boy. "I can help you there."

°°°°

Gregory leans against the other side of the sink, as she cleans the rat bite out. Her own hand still smarting under the hot spray.

"Animal's bites are disgusting," Gretchen tells her sibling. "Especially rodents."

"I didn't put it in my mouth."

"I know, and I'm proud of you."

A few seconds pass and she pulls their red hands from the water, inspecting them again.

"You're afraid," Gregory states. "Why? Da's not gonna blame you. Draco bit you first."

"It's not that," she sighs. The reflection, looking back at her, seems more frustrated then scared. "It's-" 

"Bad dreams? Is that man back?"

"No."

She sighs again, uncomfortable. "Sometimes I forget, you can't change everything."

"Are you talking about that fate thing?"

"Yeah."

"Grandma says women are supposed to say yes, not yeah."

"Yea- Yes, you're right," Gretchen acknowledges, forcing herself to stand a bit straighter. 

"We should be getting back," she says, reaching for a towel off the rack. "Vince will come looking soon, and you know how he worries."

"It'll be okay, Gretta."

°°°°°

Gretchen's fingers ache as the three of them struggle with the door. Her kin's expressions dark and thunderous. Their knuckles white. 

Muffled laughter erupts from next door and Gretchen shifts, uneasy. 

Hears a strangers laugh, not unlike her own and thinks of the spider in the box. The one the dread-locked boy had been carrying around. It's legs extending as they lean over the box, growing and growing, to an unusual size. Shivers as she feels the fine, bristle like hairs brush against her skin.

Feels them catch.

One of the boys batters the neighboring wall, in that makeshift world of her mind. An awful sound torn from his friends throat, as the arachnid pulls him forward. Thick, saliva coated mandibles mashing together and it's fangs glistening. 

The other boys shouting, half panicked as spells echo, and reverberate against the trains hollow insides.

Gretchen flexes her fingers, as they grow warm. 

The smell of scorched flesh, and hair fill her nostrils. Familiar scents, even in a whole other world.

And the door gives way. 

Soles drag along the carpet, in it's wake and they fall together in a mess of frustrated limbs, and furious faces.

Malfoy's head peers out above them. 

"What is all the fuss about?" he demands. "The door wasn't even locked."

"Go fly into a dragons den, Malfoy," she grumbles, rubbing her sore side.

°°°°°

Gretchen cackles, watching the other children shriek as the giant squid surfaces. 

It's wake creating soft waves, that roll across the smooth surface and crash into the boats. Sending the closest crafts, careening towards each other.

Delight fills her.

The squids long, silvery tentacles brush against Hagrid's waiting palm. Hooked suckers leaving no marks with the brief caress.

And she considers pushing the Malfoy heir into the water, if only to bring the wonderful creature closer. Then leans over, her arm stretched out. Just hoping.

And then Gregory panicks. 

Shouting at the top of his damaged lungs, "GRETTA!"

Seconds later, Vincent moves in tandem with her twin. Tossing his thick, burly arms around her and stealing her breath, as he crushes her ribs, and refuses to let go. The boat tipping under their combined weight. Further, and further. 

Water pours over the side, in large, thirsty gulps.

Malfoy scrambles to the other side, like a cat about to be drowned. Yowling the whole way. 

Gretchen laughs even harder, despite the pain. 

Hook, line and sink this witch, she thinks.


	4. Chapter 3 Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the sorting hat, becomes more than you imagine.

Without aplomb, the sorting hat lands on Gretchen's head. Her older brother already sorted into slytherin. Her cousin too.

"Such a curious mind," the small voice says, not bothering to whisper in her ear. "I have not sorted your like in centuries and few who thought to-"

"Oh... Ooh."

"So many secrets already," it chides, poking at her defenses. "And whoever taught you, taught you well."

She knods, and the world shifts. 

"I want to be placed in Slytherin," she tells the hat, as the magical item quivers. Gasps for breath. Wrinkled hands reaching for it's mouth, now set upon a skull. It inhales sharply. 

The air around them heavy, damp and fetid. 

Gretchen watches the the magical object touch it's seam covered skin in wonder. Trail leather like hands over it's new features, and extremities.

"How?" it marvels.

"Résiduel gifts, from what i was before."

"I think," she adds. "You can't kill a god, not truely. Some part of them always lingers."

"That is remarkable."

"No. Whatever they tried to do when they killed me, they failed.'

"Salazar was honest too," the hat remarks, slight approval in its tone.

"Then you know where to place me." 

"Oh? And if you are better suited to another house?"

"You will never be sure." Gretchens says, her legs swinging over the edge of the great bridge.

It's stone work, startling white and at odds with the landscape around them. Large, twisting trees with thick trunks and sparse vegetation blanket the bridge and its winding frame. Sap oozing down from the largest of the trees, glowing golden in the fractured light. Staining the bridge with amber streaks. Hardening in thick, viscous layers as it runs down.

Gretchen's cupped hands catch some of the excess. 

The hat dips a finger in, curious. "is it sweet?"

She smiles. "To some."

"And to others?" it questions, watching Gretta sip more of the vibrant fluid. 

"It depends upon the mother tree."

Gretchen flinches, as her sap covered hands begin cramp and pull apart, as the muscles expand and extend. Her skin growing stiff, and hardening. Jewel like patches forming across her body, and face. Catching in the light, and the hats beaded gaze.

Two sets of thick, curved horns erupt from the base of her skull, in a burst of blood. The longest curling backwards. Braided cords made of vine twist around the appendages and charms made of amber, dangle below. All beautifully crafted.

"Centuries ago, there existed a child," Gretchen starts, feeling awkward. Her gaze focused on the horizon. Through the orange and purple sky, and the swarms of red flies that cut through it. "Born not for the father, and unable to hear the mother tree, no matter how much she drank the child grew angry. Envious."

"Floundering amongst her people, her brethren and unable to understand as they did, she left. Wandered through doors, only fools opened and got lost. So lost."

"Her fangs grew sharp, and her claws swift, as the child ventured further from the waters of her youth. Found one home, and then another, but no single brotherhood was enough to fill the aching hole."

The hat shifts, inching closer and she smiles.

"There was a void, where a voice should of been."

"Until there was one."

"And it was a lie," Gretchen adds, trying to keep the yearning from her voice. "One so sweet, the child almost believed and it cost her, much."

"Her heart in his hands, her destiny followed his father. Left the child standing in the rubble, with words caught in her throat and no one left to understand."

"She stumbled, from there. Took to the trees, and drank heavily from the sisters, hoping to forget a second time. Listened to the call in the distance, of he who laughs and he who screams."

"And under his mantle, she became."

Her eyes trace the inlets between the shores, with rune marked doors a she takes another deep breath. Admiring the Fungi, and long curling ferns bordering the entry ways. The flowers with blue, bell shaped flowers and others, plants with spots and cup shaped blooms. Their scent, barely reaching them.

Part of a world, she still mourns. 

"And then a fourth time a child awoke, with fractured, broken memories of that time. A new world beneath her feet. Her dreams, her only connection to those past lives. The doors, that existed there."

"And then one was cracked open, by a ghost. Loosing more of the caught fabric."

"That is why things are changing," the hat remarks, thoughtfully. "Your kind have always been that, agents of chaos."

"Then you know where I belong," Gretta urges. "Place me in Slytherin. That is where I will have the most influence."

"You will at that," a garbled voice calls out, startling the youngest of the bridges occupants. 

Pulling itself from the murky depths, a black figure lurches forward for a second time. Attempting to grab the hat's legs, it leaves dark smears on the stone below. The hanging moss.

"She has-" 

Her grandmother's mimic chokes, and mud spills from it's lips, coating the nearby orange stalks with more spots. Fibrous bodies bending, as the large leans upon them. Their bulbous, hollowed heads casting grass, and knots of tangled fur into the dirty water. Startling the insects that zip and dart out below.

"She has given you a taste of life," the mimic repeats, and with more force this time.

"She has at that," the little voice says. It's clawed hands playing with some of the sap, between it's fingers, before putting some of them to it's wide mouth. Tongue darting out to relish the licorice like sweet.

"How many children offer you more than memories?" the mimic continues. "A glimpse of what you were before?"

"Few." The hat acknowledges. "But the girl's stubborness is better suited to Gryffindor, her creativity to Hugglepuff and her-"

"I have little interest in riddles," Gretchen interupts. Her arms crossing. "When I am not the one, telling them."

"So determined," the hat murmers, and then it smiles. Something odd, catching in it's eyes.

"I could be swayed, for a story however," it adds. "A proper one. None of these fragments, you do so enjoy."

"Very well," she concedes.

Gretchen lets her illusions fade, without shame.

The mimic dissolving into into dark, stained waters, and the fluid forming a thick sheet of steam, to paint the thrust up walls. Polished stone, and vegetation forming chairs. Other Furniture. All grander than those Gretchen imagines, that lined the halls of Hogwarts in it's first few years.

"I am offered so few," the creature continues to complain, as it too is pulled apart. "And material is so hard to grasp, between the threads of time sewn into me."

"But you were aware of this, weren't you?

"You are a sly child."

Gretchen stares at the four people who now stand before her, and grins. "I am that, and more."

"But I will offer you two, for an additional price," Gretchen states, turning her back on the founders. Admiring the pictures of flame licked hats on the walls. Her hands clasped behind her back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys are wonderful!


	5. Chapter 3 Part 2

Despite the chair Vincent has kicked out beside her twin, Gretchen stops behind her sibling.

"So we meet again," she says cheerfully, wrapping her arms around the boys head. A goofy smile, splayed across her face.

The wrinkles in her siblings forhead crease, as he asks, "We do?" 

"Of course, big brother. And in the house you wanted too."

Gretchen turns to her cousin next, the easier of her family to embaress.

"No," the boy states, knowing her far to well.

"So mean," Gretchen complains, seating herself at the long table. "I only wanted a hug."

"I don't," Vincent grumbles. His round cheeks marked with a splotchy, unflattering red.

"Really?" She teases. "I thought you loved me." 

"Shut up."

"Now, now that almost hurts."

"And to bad cousin, I know the truth."

"You should of heard him earlier," the older boy, seated next to her stage whispers, and Gretchen focuses on him. 

Finds bright eyes, and a set of lips, that Sanguine would wax on, about. 

"He was muttering about the hat, to your brother. Saying the stupid thing was taking to long."

Gretchen laughs. "Well, i can hardly argue with that."

°°°°°  
Minerva follows Professor Binn's gaze. 

The ghost not bothering to hide his interest in the Goyle child, or stealing peeks as the spirits had.

"What are you staring at Cuthbert?" She queries. 

Some of the other teacher's heads turn, interested as well.

"Should we be concerned?"

The old man blinks, and furrows his brows, as he turns to Minerva. 

"That child," he murmurs, rubbing his chin.

Moments pass, and then a few more. 

"What about that child?" Severus prods, annoyed at all the attention his student seemed to be garnering. 

The history professor turns to the dark haired man and scowls. 

"What ever do you want, Bertrand?! You know I don't like to be interrupted when I'm thinking!" the ghost snaps.

"The child," Minerva repeats, cursing herself for her curiousty. It would of been better to ask one of the more social dead. "We were discussing her."

"Oh," Binn says, looking towards the girl.

His eyes narrow again, and he let's out a frustrated sound. Rummages around in his pocket, for a small silp of cloth.

"I think there may be something wrong with my glasses," the shriveled figure, mutters. 

Professor Sprout snorts, into her tea cup.

°°°°°  
Gretchen curses, and the other children turn.

She pushes her plate away.

After all the sweets, the children should be getting a sugar high not yawning, and looking around, with tired, bleary eyes.

Maybe that, was what made the song to come seem so magical.

"Is it common for the house elves to lace the first years food, with a calming drought, or was it splashes of a sleeping one?" Gretchen asks, Walsh, the fourth year she had met earlier.

"You noticed?"

"It would be practical," she admits, though a few of the others look at her oddly. 

"Practical?"

"Yes."

Teachers would hardly want to deal with failing tempers, and weeping spells, on their first day back. Or even overexcited children, who never slept and passed out in classes.

Yet Walsh only smiles at her, as if pleased and elbows his neighbour in the ribs. A slight boy with pale hair, and a soft chin.

The child grunts, and looks up. 

"The house elves stop after the first few days," he says, holding back a sigh. "Continued usage of those potions could be habit forming, and none of our parents, would stand for that."

"Okay."

"Why? Do you have an allergy to one of the ingredients?"

"No."

But continued use, would cost her ability to sleep safely.

And things slipped through, when Gretchen wasn't careful. 

°°°°°

Gretchen strides into the dorm room behind the Greengrass heir, a quiet girl with hair the color of freshly poured toffee, and in front of Bulstrode and Davis. 

And as they enter the dorms, she catches sight of her trunk. Just over from the door, and at the foot of a bed, nearest to the large paneled windows. Not a defensible position, no, but good for a quick escape.

Relief settles her gut, and she looks towards the fifth year prefect for instruction.

A horned figure stands in the teenager's place. Far larger, and dressed in dirty, well worn leathers. A steel, short sword at his waist.

The distortion lasts for but a second.

It is the water, Gretchen thinks. The water reflecting on the gray stonework. 

Her head tips upwards, chin pointing towards the iron wrought chandeliers. 

It should be the roof. Or no... That was wrong. 

It was...

This whole place was wrong.

Wrong, wrong, wrong.

She stares at the wall a few more minutes, uncomfortable and for the life of her, Gretchen cannot figure out what it is, that is triggering the memory.

It was clearly not the red haired prefect, droning on, or the other children.

The position of furniture was fine, but-

Gretchen thrusts her arm out and feels the palm connect with the cold, rough stone. 

"Thief! Scoundrel," the guards yell. Voices echoing throughout the chambers.

The figure gasps, and leans into the shadowed alcove, scales scraping against the wall. Bag held tighter to her chest. Too small a haul for all-

"Goylette? Wha-" 

"The shadows are off," Gretchen declares. Her hand retreating to her side.

Parkinson, a petite looking girl, with well defined features, and dark hair snorts. 

"Really?" she asks, moving closer. "My mother said, the dorms used to house more students. Maybe it's a-"

"It is the angle of the stones." Gemma Farley remarks, pushing past the slighter figure to examine the wall. "There were numerous secret rooms, and passages built into the castle, as well as ones no longer in use and it often effects the dimensions."

"Some even say the castle moves around to the headmasters whims, but i call bullocks. Whatever spells the founders cast, they got more than they expected."

"Peeves for example."

"And the finicky staircases?" Gretchen asks.

"Yes. Though it really isn't something you need to worry about," the prefect remarks. Farley's unbound hair, scraping her shoulders as she shrugs. "You'll get used to the castle soon enough."

"Then what do we need to worry about?" Greengrass queries, lying her nightgown on her bed near Gretchen's. Frosted nails picking at an invisible string on the sleeve. Her face schooled into the perfect image of boredom.

Gretchen shifts, watching envy cross Bulstrode's face. 

"What you need to fear, is the other houses," the prefect warns, almost looming over David. Her smile, no longer present. "Outside these rooms you will be targets."

"And firsties are always easy prey," Farley adds.

The David girl, with her heart shaped face and tea stained curls looks even more uneasy, biting her rounded bottom lip, and gazing towards the entry way.

Of her three new roommates, she seems to take the news the worst. 

Greengrass's reaction was so slight, Gretchen almost dismisses it as an illusion. 

And Bulstrode bristles, near Parkinson, all rough square angles, and long black hair, that does little to soften her edges.

The smaller of the two, sneers. "I'm sure we can handle ourselves." 

The girl's petite frame lacking any real intimidation factor, Gretchen decides. Her face had potential though, if she could add more venom to her tone.

"I am sure."

"And in a few years i'm sure you may even be alright, but until then stick together. These are your new sisters, blood be damned and you will need them."

"It's also makes it easier, for the house to keep track of us I assume?" Greengrass asks.

"None of us want to see an isolated first year tripping over their nose hair or worse, experiencing whatever those vulgar twins have cooked up. I'm sure you don't want to either."

Farley sighs, seeing Gretchen's interest. "Just make our lives easier and listen, okay?"

She meets the girl's dark irises. "And if we prefer to deal with them on our own?"

"Don't get cocky."


	6. Chapter 4

Minerva follows Binn's gaze. The ghost not bothering to steal peeks at the girl, as the others had.

"What are you staring at Cuthbert?" She asks. Some of the other teacher's heads turn, curious as well.

"Should we be concerned?" she continues 

The old man blinks. Tries to focus on Minerva's face.

Pale eyes then fail on the girl and hus brow furrows. "That child.." he says. Moments pass, and then a few more.

"What about that child?" Severus prods, annoyed at all the attention his student is generating. The girl seemingly ordinary to him, if large for her age.

The history professor turns and slams his hand down, irritated. "What?" 

"The child," Minerva repeats, cursing herself softly for her curiousty.

Binn looks again. "Oh"

Rummages around in his pocket seconds later. "I think there may be something wrong with my glasses."

Professor Sprout snorts.

:::::::::::::::::::

Gretchen watches some of the other first years yawn, and is immediately suspicious. She stares down at her empty plate. After all those sweets, they should still be riding a sugar high. Atleast for a few hours.

Fingers tug on the sleeve of the older boy beside her. A friendly seventh year named Walsh with thick hair, tired eyes and a soft jaw. Placed near the first years because he had a younger sibling, and was slow to anger. 

"Huh?" The brunette says. Confusion clear on his face.

Gretchen cocks her head. "Is it normal for the school to lace dinner with a sleeping draught?

It would be practical she thinks. Failing tempers and weeping spells something no adult would look forward too. Nor any teacher, when their charges enter the room half asleep and listening with half an ear.

Walsh looks at her as if she's grown a second head. The table gone silent around them. A few of the older years putting their forks down, and pushing their plates away, faces twisted with disgust.

Her cheeks darkening, the girl clarifies, "Not a full dose mind you, but-"

A full dose, would make her dreams last longer she thinks. Would open doors like the one the brown haired man stepped through. His teeth glinting in the candle light as he smiled down at her.

Called a strangers name, and then another.

Golden scales melting off his skin, and pooling on the floor. Humble clothes left behind. A broken ruby reforming on the mans neck, over the monks robes. The jewel no longer a guantlet woven into his skin, with edges like severed bone.

A name falls from her lips, familiar but not and she trembles. 

Can barely bring herself to turn, when a strangers hand clasps her shoulder.

"And in your eyes, I behold the suns companion," the old man says. Clothed in riches, and eyes filled with something she does not understand.

Her mouth opens. "What do you mean?" she asks, but a part of her knows.

Gretchen feels the mans smile like the sun beating down on her, and she-

Gretchen blinks, as she registers a hand waving in front of her face.

"You're kind of an an air head, aren't you?," a strangers teases, from beside the perfect who had introduced herself earlier. "Should we be worried we have Ravenclaw in our midst?"

Another boy rolls his eyes, nearly bulging out of his face. "Leave the girl alone. Atleast she has a brai-"

"What kind of firstie even asks a question like that?" Gemma Farley demands, pushing the boy back into his seat. Her sleeve catching in his gravy.

The girl scowls. "And it's a potion Goyle, not a draught." 

"She could be right," another argues, three seats from the perfects right. A thin fourth year with aristocratic features, and close cut brown hair. 

A boy on his left smirks, thin lips twisting up. A dark hand clasping the side of his face as he looks at them. "Mother is on board of directors. I could ask her about it." 

Across from him a third year snickers, hitting the shoulder of the girl next to her. "Just imagine it getting out! The headlines! Dumbledore! Drugging students!"

"A time honored tradition or newly discovered solution?" someone else adds. The people around him groaning, and making faces.

"What? I would read that."

"And clearly, the tabloids have been rotting your brain."

The conversation devolves further, and Gretchen stares at her plate, trying to remember the mans name. 

How his eyes had shown with relief. 

Greg elbows her, and she looks up, weary by now of all the interruptions. The prefects still trying to steer the conversation away, as their head of the house approaches. A pale man with greasy hair, and to large of a nose. His mouth a thin, hard line. Eyes like the shells of the beetles that stripped away flesh.

The man focuses on Gretchen for a moment and then lands on Malfoy. The boy practically glowing.

"I do not think you are gonna get an answer tonight, " Walsh whispers, beside her.

She knods, catching sight of the mans cape just as it settles.


	7. Chapter 5

Gretchen walks into the dorm room behind the Greengrass girl, and infront of Bulstrode and Davis.

Catches sight of her trunk as she enters, and feels relief. Just over from the door, and nearest to the large paneled windows. Not a defensible position, no, but good for a quick escape.

She looks towards the fifth year prefect for instruction, and sees a red scaled man standing in the teenager's place. Far larger, and dressed in ragged, worn leathers. Two swords at his side. 

The distortion lasts for but a second.

It is the water, she thinks. The water reflecting on the walls. Her head tips upwards. It should be the roof. Or no... Wait. That is wrong. It..

This whole place is wrong.

Wrong, wrong, wrong.

She stares at the wall a few more minutes, feeling uncomfortable and like something is missing. The perfect droning on in the background.

Gretchen thrusts her hand out and feels it connect with the cool, rough stone. 

"Thief! Scoundrel," the guards yell, voices echoing throughout the chambers.

The woman gasps, and leans into the shadowed alcove, scales scraping against the wall. Bag held tighter to her chest. Too small a haul for all-

"Goylette? Wha-" 

"The shadows are off," Gretchen declares, hand falling to her side.

Parkinson snorts. "Don't tell me-"

"It is the angle of the stones." Farley interrupts, staring down the other girl.

Parkinson huffs and looks away. 

The perfect turns. "There are alot of secret places built into the castle Goylette, and it effects the dimensions."

"Some even say the castle moves around to the headmasters whims, but i think that's bullshit. Whatever spells the founders cast, they got more than they expected. Peeves for example." 

"Though it really isn't something you need to worry about," she shrugs. "You'll get used to the castle soon enough."

"Then what do we need to worry about?" Greengrass queries, picking at an invisible string on her sleeve. Face the perfect image of boredom.

Gretchen shifts, watching the other girls face.

The perfect looms, smile tight and hard. "What you really need to worry about is the other students."

"Outside these rooms you will be targets."

The other girls stiffen at the perfect's warning. Gretchen almost dismissing the Greengrass girl's reaction as an illusion, the movement so slight. 

"Firsties are easy prey," Farley continues. Davis biting her lip and looking around nervously

Bulstrode clenches her fists while Parkinson sneers, "We can handle ourselves." Her petite frame lacking any real intimidation factor. 

"I am sure," Gemma says drily. "And in a few years i'm sure you may even be alright, but until then stick together. It's easier for us to keep track of you that way."

"None of us want to see an isolated first year tripping over their nose hair or worse, experiencing whatever those twins have cooked up. I'm sure you don't want to either."

Farley sighs, seeing Gretchen's interest. "Just make our lives easier and listen, okay?"

The youngest Goyle meets the girl's dark irises. "And if we prefer to deal with them on our own?"

"Don't get cocky."

::::::::::::::::::

Millicient pauses.

Watches the strange Goyle girl re-enter the room. A high waisted night gown in place of her robes, the shade something her mother calls aubergine. A split running down the middle, and filled with old lace. It's sleeves short, and curling over. The material moving like silk. Her hair down, and drawn back in a thick plait. Small pearls still woven into it. 

Millicient glances back towards her own chest. Her mothers choices following the older fashion trends as well, but were no wear as flattering. 

She catches Davis staring at the girl as well. Eying the witch as she bends over her trunk, an inherited piece like Millicient's own. Silver knife slipping out its ankle hoster and sliding across her finger. 

Blood wells.

And then the young witch moves forward, finger tip pressed to the trunk's lid. Tracing the family's initial. An interesting choice. Most wards requiring a prick of the finger, over the latch or lock.

And the room quiets, as the lid opens.

Blood magic still forbidden in many places due to the scarifices and the stealing of corpses, but a few exceptions have been made. Wards, in particular familial ones were still popular among the people who practised the ancient rites, like the Bulstrodes or those families with enough magic in their blood to still activate them. 

The Davis girl had flushed using a locking charm. Pansy's and Daphne smirking, their own chests brand new and with built in protections keyed to them. A show of their families wealth rather then heritage.

"Did you want something?" the female Goyle asks, meeting her gaze. 

"No," Millicient blurts out, her cheeks burning. She looks down. Arms wrapped around the books she's carrying.

She straightens and lifts her jaw. She can't afford to appear weak in front of Pansy. "I just noticed that your-"

"Oh," Goyle says. Her head cocking as she focuses on the novels. "I like that author as well." And then she is digging, throwing a few things over the top of her trunk and onto the covers of her bed. 

Milicient is lost, unsure if she should continue putting her books away, or wait. Offending a potential friend is not something she wants to do, especially one who shares her blood. However distantly. 

One who she has heard Vincent mention in passing, and held his absolute loyalty. A rare thing for a Crabbe to give. Their family known for shifting ties, and bad tempers, aligning themselves with the strongest power while the Goyles were the opposite. Aligning themselves with those they cared for.

"Here," the youngest Goyle says. Her eyes crinkling, as a book is swept under Millicient's nose. "I finished this last week. You can pay me back another time"

Stiffling laughter, Daphne runs a hand down her face. "Merlin, you are bad at this."

"Why am i even surprised?" Pansy comments, leaning over to look at Daphne's spilled hand.

Millicient's heart mearly skips a beat as she reads the book's title.

"There isn't anything i want right now," Goyle huffs. "I could ask Bulstrode to hop on one leg, and do a little shimmy but-"

"A shimmy?" Davis asks, quaking. Her hand still stuck to the wall, where the Spellbound poster had been moments ago. "Seriously?"

"Shut up, it was the first thing that came to mind. Well, after the hoping bit. I could probably of wen-"

"How?" Millicent interupts with slight reverance. A little fear.

Goyle meets her gaze. Shrugs. "My grandmother has connections."

Millicient's breath hitches. Unnamed favours were dangerous things, especially among the merchantile houses.

Still, she runs her palm over the cover. "Thank you. I will take it."

::::::::::::::

Gretchen shivers, as she listens to the other girls breathing. The quilt heavy, but all she can feel is the cold seeping into her bones, past the thick threads and silk of her night gown. That familiar burning, no warming charm could iminate.

Her eyes water, but Gretchen refuses to cry out. Resists the urge to rip off her clothes.

The canopy above swims, when she tries to upright her self. Stiff arms fumbling with all the layers on her bed.

A soft curse escapes Gretchen's lips, as her lungs struggle to inflate.

Her hand moves to her throat.

And she wonders if this is what it feels like to drown. The water brushing the windows and growing louder with each passing moment.  
Her heartbeat, the sound of distant merfolks' drums.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you think about the story so far? Do our have any favourite moments so far?


	8. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you Karin_Angel for the comment on an earlier chapter and all those who leave kudos.

The Draw Ch 6

Gretchen blinks when she sees Vincent leaning against the wall.

"Bout time," he says. His arms uncrossing.

::::::::::::::::

Poppy Pomfrey watches Gretchen Goyle enter, shivering and far to pale.

An unfortunate youth who had been cursed while still in the womb. Her mother dying mid-birth from the same dark magic, though the healers at St. mungos had noted it's hold on her body weakening as the child aged, and her magic grew stronger. The child's twin far luckier, having been born first.

The matron meets the child half way. The girl far more resigned then wary. She ushers her to the closest bed, and performs a quick heating charm, and then another when it fails.

"It won't work," the girl says, looking up with haunted eyes that break the elder witches heart. "In an hour, or so it will pass. And at worst mid-day."

She sighs, and runs a hand through her hair. "I usually stay in bed until it does, but I wanted to get the examination over with."

"Grandmother said you were thorough."

"I am," the witch agrees. 

Aurenia Goyle nee Burke had always had a good head on her shoulders. It had been a surprise to Poppy's younger self when she went through with the arranged marriage to the Goyle heir. Less so, when he had a mysterious accident a few years later. When the other woman refused to re-enter proper society, snubbing many of the old families it hadn't been.

The woman's grandchild shifts, moving in position for the next test without being asked. Accepting the matrons ministrations with the air of someone who had been poked, and prodded all their life.

"Healer Bramford's notes mentioned something about dreams," Poppy mentions. Curious and hoping to distract the youth.

The girl knods. 

"He believes that the nightmares are a manifestation of the curse, and that is why I feel so poorly when I wake." 

An understatement really, considering what Poppy had read in her file

"And what do you think?"

"I think death caught me in his grip, and doesn't want to let go."

Poppy stiffens. Looks at the child holding her arms out. "That is a morbid thought my dear."

"I know."

::::::::::::::::

Her shoulder bumps Vincent's, and he jumps. Turns stiffly, and shoots her an annoyed glance.

"What?" he grunts out.

"Thank you."

Flustered by the earnest looks on her face, Vincent turns away. "It wasn't anything. Was on my way."

She laughs, shaking her head and loops her arm with his. "Let's head out, then."


	9. Chapter 7

The Draw Chapter 7 

Gretchen thinks she might like him, this mad man. Lost to what he loved, and with little patience for much else. Ignoring the hands, and questions the other children pose.

The dark skinned Granger with thick, bushy hair and almond eyes had finally fallen silent. Her face sullen. A few others were asleep in their seats, and some are simply aghast. Gretchen's own twin apart of the former category, snoring softly at her side.

She smiles winsomely at the professor, who twitchs and almost fumbles in his monologue.

She bites back a laugh, and leans back on her hand, wondering what he sees. Gretchen has caught the other ghosts staring as well, and a few have introduced themselves. 

Did they see the same hands that coiled around Gretchen and the darkness that always seemed to be reaching out to her, whenever she looked into the mirrors?

And Potter, was he able to see it as well? The scar on his forehead sending tendrils of black down his face, and neck, while the rest of him glowed underneath.

Professor Quirell, and the mass inhabiting him. It's roots deep, and growing with each day. Dark as Potter's streaks. Pulsing, as they sucked the life from him.

Then there was Greengrass and the strange form that wrapped around her hips, and wove into her stomach. Still as if dormant, and biding it's time.

They were cursed beings, just like her. How could they not know?

Gretchen sighs, and tries to refocus on the lecturing ghost, but keeps drifting. 

The table beneath her shortens, as she waits.

She can feel the blade's gaze upon her back, as the footsteps approach. Feel the vibrations through the stone.

And then they appear, the sponsor and the cultists.  Dressed in re-

Gretchen grabs the hand, intent on breaking the appendage and hears someone cry out.

:: :: :: :: ::

The table falls silent.

Severus pushes down the essay that has been thrust into is face. Cartoonish cats dancing in the margins. Their spectacles familar.

"Your student is cheating." Minerva declares, all rightious fury. "And she is taunting me."

Flitwick wobbles in his seat, as he reaches for the parchment. "I think they are quite cute, Minerva." 

Sprout knods as she peers over his shoulder.

"And they are wearing tarten coats,"  
Sprout states with glee. The essay now in her hands, as it is passed along.

Synestra agrees. "The design is quite nice." Adjusts her glasses, as she inspected it closer. "I do like the buttons. "

Poppy knods. "It would look nice on you Minerva. The colour is quite fetching, and you are fond of the pattern."

"The girl doodles on everything. My students are often quite talented, Minerva." Snape drawls. Making a silent note to deal with the girl later. "I am sure are mistaken, or imagining things."

"I am not!"

"And no first year writes like this!"  
Minerva motions for the essay back, and points to some words. "Look here, and here! No child uses words like this correctly."

Dumbledore glances over. A half buttered scone in his hand. "The young miss Goyle is precocious, Minerva. She prefers to remain anonymous, but the girl is a published author. "

A few of the professors blink.

A collecive, "What?" Is formed.

The pale looking Defense Against Dark Arts Professor raises his head from his meal. A sad affair with far to much gravy.

"They are mediocre at best," Albus continues, raising the scone to his lips. Pausing to relish the taste. "But have potential. And the other children seem to enjoy them."

:: :: :: :: ::

Quirell watches the girl enter, her brother trailing behind. Her text books in his arms

"May I have a moment of your time, professor?" She asks. The smile polite, but not quite reaching her eyes.

"Offf coarrsse," he says, hands folding in front of him. A slight tremor rippling through them, as his body tries to adapt to his master.

There is something about the young Mrs. Goyle isn't quite right, something that draws him. That leaves him abrift when she leaves their presence.

His master says she calls to him too.

Quirell only feels a deep, abiding ache.


	10. Chapter 8

The Draw Ch 8 

Malfoy jumps, as Vince's hand clamps over his mouth. Eyes opening wide and fingers fumbling around in the sheets for his wand.

"Malfoy," he hisses, and the other boys struggles stop.

"We're going flying," Gretchen says behind Vincent, looking dead on her feet but determined. A faint light glowing from the tip of her wand. "Get up, and put on your cloak."

One of the other boys breathing falls out of sync, and she turns around. Catches Zabini peering out at her. 

"I am not witty enough to stop your tongue," she says, still annoyed with his earlier taunts. "But I am just as dangerous as you mother Zabini. So if you are planning on ratting us out, or making a fuss, we will break your legs and toss you over the stairs. No one will know the better."

"So either come along, or keep your mouth shut," she adds grumpily, as Vincent settles a placating hand on her back.

"And you Nott, I know you're pretending to be sleep. Are you in, or out?"

:: :: :: :: ::

The youngest Goyle peers around the corner at him. Plastor crumbling as she brushes past.

Draco watches the girl warily. The moonlight doing strange things to her eyes, and to her face. Her brown hair taking on the colour of stained bone.

"Malfoy," she calls out, startling him. "Common."

Draco clings to the far wall. "This is a terrible idea," he calls out.

"An awful one," she agrees.

And it is awful, he thinks.

He should of fought harder to stay in bed. Made a larger fuss when Vincent finally hauled him up, and the girl demanded he dress. Pointing to the door, asking, "don't you want to fly?"

Annoyance coarses through him, and he kicks at the grass. He should of ignored them. Stayed in bed, where it was warm like the others.

His thin lips purse.

And now the Goylette wasn't even paying attention, to busy digging in her pocket. Dragging out a worn pocket watch, that catches in the faint light. A masculine accessory his mother wouldn't be caught dead with. The quality something his father would sneer at.

Draco hears her wand tap against the time piece, and then again.

He steps closer, curious.

The girl murmering, "lumos." The area around her suddenly alight with a sickly pale yellow. Slowly flickering into brighter hue, as she casts again. 

Long, dark green vines recoiling a few feet away, trying to throw themselves back into the darkness. Curling into themselves. He curses softly, and checks around him.

He pales, looking down and side steps more of the devil's snare, before running to her. A lump in his throat.

Goylette ignores his arrival, magic twisting around her hand in some unknown spell. A strange language pouring from her lips. Heavy and accented, like one of the old tongues.

Draco's arms cross. The world around them sliding back into the soft twilight that often accompanied the early hours.

It isn't fair he thinks. She isn't like him, breed for greatness.

She shouldn't be so gifted. Receiving better marks in transfiguration and charms, while he struggled to stay ahead of that damned, know it all muggleborn. His mother having focused on hexes and jinxes, and his father focused on the basics of survival in Slytherin, and honoring the family name.

The girl lacked that. Her father a duffer who produced an even dumber son. 

Draco just doesn't understand it. 

He scowls, hearing her robes rustle, and then she is before him. Towering, as she always is. And then Draco steps back, only for her to grab his hand. Manhandling him once again. 

This time at least her her gloves are soft, and furred. Tickling his fingers

"Filch will be heading this way soon," she says.

Draco glances towards the doorway. "You have the servants timed?"

"Most of them. I'm no fool."

"You're sure?" 

"About being a fool? Most of the time." She sighs, running a hand through her lightly woven hair and glances back as well. "Sometimes Filch tries to change things up, catch students off guard."

"We should be good though," Goyette says, tugging him along. Shivering again as they wind picks up. "I payed off the Weasley Twins to form a distraction on the other side of the castle."

A startled laugh escapes him. "You..."

"How?"

The weasley twins were meanuses, the worst of their lot. How she convinced them Draco wasn't sure. They hated snakes, and they hated her even more. Their brother a frequent targets of the slytherin twins.

"A Ravenclaw," she says, and whips around, surprising him. Palm slamming over Draco's mouth before he can scream. A figure looming over him.

"Damn it, Vince," Goyette growls. "You're supposed to be on watch."

"I was," he grunts. "But I heard you talking. Thought you got into trouble."

"Was gonna surprise em'."

:::::::::::::::::

Amid the cheers, Draco rips through the early morning sky. The cold stinging his cheeks, but he can't help but grin.

His companions trailing behind him. The Goyle girl not far behind, and Vincent off to the right, struggling with his broom. Cursing enthusiastically at the aging equipment. 

The girl laughs, and moves to steady the Crabbe heir. His pockets spilling over, landing in the softly lit courtyard below.

Draco stares at the fallen coins.

Imagines one is the golden snitch, flitting around and dives. The roar of the audience behind him. 

There is no Potter to ruin this moment. 

No one to answer too.

The breeze ruffles his hair as Draco pulls up. Soars over the roof, holding it. His arm outstretched.

Hears faint clapping, and turns.

Catches Goyle stuffing flower stalks down Vincents back, as he tries to fight her off and control the broom .

"Quit it, Gretta!" He growls, swiping at her. "I don't wanna stink."

She smiles harder. "You'll stink pretty, I promise."

And then the boy swipes at her again and she dodges, rolling. Holding her body close to the broom. Laughing as she stops upside down a few feet away, and struggling for breath. 

Stalks catching in her hair.

:: :: :: :: ::

The corridor is empty, when they finally reach the portrait to the Slytherin common room.

She glares at her great aunt on the wall, one of the most vocal blood purists of her time. 

"I don't want to talk about it Vincent." The handkerchief in her fist damp.

"That's blood."

"I'll liv-"

Malfoy leans over, surprised. "How?"

"You didn't fall that ha-" he pales catching sight of the drying fluid on her lips, the blue tinge underneath. 

"It's FINE."

"Are you mad?!" he asks, digging for his own hankercheif. "A bloody nose is fine. That is not!"

"You need to go see Madam Pomfrey!"

She sighs, rubbing her arms. "I was planning to, once you guys go inside."

"That is a wise course of action," Snape says, startling them. "You should listen to the girl, and return to bed. I will escort her.

"Professor," Gretchen greets.

::

He watches Gregory's daughter brace herself against the wall, and take another swing from the flask. 

Some ill prepared numbing potion by the smell of it. Giant's toe and Garlic. Potent but effective for only short periods of time.

"There will be no point in trying to keep you alive if you keep this up."

She meets his gaze, and tries to smile, though it is more a grimace. Her teeth stained. "But you will Professor, because you like a challenge."

::

Gretchen stares at the professor as he stands near the matron. No doubt thinking Madam Pomfrey's coming lecture a suitable punishment. 

Gretchen hardly minded.

The matron was fierce in many ways, but kind at heart and well meaning.

Even willing to answer Gretchens endless questions, and offer her a few lessons in healing. 

Simple things really.

Things St. Mungos wouldn't of allowed. The hard-working healers to easily harried by her botched attempts. 

And in that other place, magic had been easier. Made more sense.

Many nights Gretchens dreams were now more like portals, her magical reserves used up and no longer able to hold the doors fully closed. 

Voices slipping through the door, begging. Others claiming she was theirs still, that she was someone else. 

Someone with many names.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

"Do you think he would teach me that?" Gretchen whispers, as the other professor finally leaves. Satisfied.

It surprises the blue robedwoman. "The dramatic exit?"

"No, that's the cape," Gretchen murmers, as Mardom Pomfrey touches her too warm forehead. "And the speedwalking."

"I meant the spell that's protecting it. The one that keeps his cape from getting caught in doors or turned into other things, like snakes or tentacles with hooked suckers."

"Do you think it could be transfigured?"

The matron frowns. "The other children are still targeting you?"

"On occasion," she admits. Hands gesturing towards her body. "I am a little hard to miss."


End file.
